#mila's fics

[stylezxsilvermoon]

the secret charm: dorothea's pendant: the prince & princess of disaster, burn to ashes together

❞and evan dando never planned on telling you the truth, and your leonardo I.D. card is your fountain of youth, you can be a teenager for your whole fucking life, just find some pretty sucker and make that bitch your wife❞

THE BEER - KIMYA DAWSON

SONG OF THE CHAPTER: I KNOW THE END - PHOEBE BRIDGERS

A/N: this isn't exactly a chapter, it's more, its a character-dependent sort of soliloquy, i might do more of these. It's part of the story, it gives the characters a chance to jump off the page and give them more depth. And you know me, i love lots of depth. Lots of love, Star xx

WC: 1.1K 

❃゜・。. ・°゜✼ ゜°・ . 。・゜❃

DOROTHEA'S PENDANT: 

THE PRINCE & PRINCESS OF DISASTER, BURN TO ASHES TOGETHER

❃゜・。. ・°゜✼ ゜°・ . 。・゜❃

⁕

Dorothea

The night continues on like the twisted ever land paradise it's meant to me, and it's clear to many being a royal means being the wearer of many faces. As terrifying as that sounds, you learn to avoid the 'switch'. A made-up feeling of your wounds being healed over by the glitz and glamour. Getting quickly swept away by some suave heir that promises riches and gold in exchange for your womanhood, an all-exclusive ticket to your rarest fantasies and all your midnight kisses. And this notion, this notion makes me wish I had never left my mother's womb, preverbally speaking. Her Queendom, which is an extension of her motherly nature, caring overall and sweeping them into ultimate hazy hues of heartfelt feelings. Harmonious and honest, as all was meant to be. Alas, before growing to be a shapely woman I have outgrew my mother's love like one would a baby's old clothing. And it tears at the very soul, though of what I have left now that I have sold it to a man uncaring of where my feelings will lay. As long as my dress is discarded onto waves heady warmth. And the moments are spine tingling and bone chilling, all together to create a neutral nonexistence of everything I could have dreamed of.

And I hope he knows, the love I have for him is ever-cascading. And I hope he knows, I look at my face like one would peer at a gushing open would. The party parades around us like a carousel of chaos and never-ending casualties. Spilled drinks and drunken whispers are sure to cause a frenzy when most of us are of our wits tomorrow. But for now, while the veil of magic and mystery is over our eyes, everything seems better than it actually seems to be in reality. Under the influence of things that make us feel like we can fly.

But somehow, I feel even more weighed down than ever before. It's almost as if I'm attempting to swim my way through this storm of chaos. And all the more to come.

Despite being all too deep to stop this now. I ponder if this is truly what I wish, what I desire. If I could go back and see it all from the view I have now. But, am I the same woman he met all those years ago? I have grown out of many things since the before times of it all. And if I could scream this from the roof tops, I'd say; damn it all. May I be of the highest heights and fall from them and crack my skull open. Tis seems the fate of all that are born on the ledge of ludicracy. We were born to fall, in more ways than one.

And often I wonder, when I look in the mirror, who do I see? A powerful Queen, or a weapon of mass destruction. Will my mouth be used to spread the regime of power? Or, will it be as little of use for good as a barrel of a gun? Only to After all I have done, am I not ashamed of my damndest?

To know my fate was never completely my own, but it may have been, could have been if I had been born male? Even my mother, her womb like a canon for a bomb. Only destruction has come of it, come of me. I am so very mad like a hatter and undone by the words that swirl in my head. And they are all... simply because of a charmed gentleman. For all my allotted days, I am forever sweetened by. Like a beautiful passion fruit brought to rumination by the warmth of spring. He is my spring. But too much water...too much power turns me into mush. Overripens me, until I am not fit for consumption at all.

May my bitterness not condemn me to eternal servitude. But the curse to live this life, is enough, it is enough to make bile rise to my throat. Truly sickening, that what thrills me will lead me to a hollow grave. Unjust, uncouth, unrighteous. But, oh...do I love it, do I love him. The party carries on without a hitch, even as our legs begin to numb from the adrenaline and other additives coursing into our blood stream. I feel static in my heart, and it makes me laugh.

"Oh, what a grand day this is." I announce as I smile brightly. Like the diamonds that shine on every ladies fingers. All but mine, shining bright sapphire.

"Indeed." Harry announces, coming back from what almost looks like, war! His clothes soiled and his tie on his shoulder. Still, despite it all, Cheshire smirked-up to the nines and as mischievous as ever.

I help him pick up his face off the floor when we begin to blend into the background. Or, simply it feels that way to the crowd of onlookers. Even behind the mask are a disguise for who we truly are. And, who we truly fear. The rich may always look down upon the poor, for their shoes going un-shined and muddied. And there hearts forever pure with the most golden of intentions. Unlike the richest, with metal cages around their hearts and bars and a jailer around their minds. And it slips by like a thief in the night by the name of a crown, oh what a wicked thing.

But, in this 'so-called' magical world. We are the true degenerates. Teens sickly enough to be waifs much like the poor. But instead of our stomachs rumbling from lack of sustenance, we crave substance in our veins. To numb the pain of simply just being. W fake all hours of the day and some of the night. But we are what is to be feared, to be looked down upon, truly, at the end of it all. Four our crowns were forged of bloodied battle, and unholy deaths upon stakes of grand adventure. Speaking from experience, my soul feels martyred much like a woman burnt at the stake. And only the bare brittle bones remain. And even then, I am tethered, then I am tied.

May it be talked about in folk tales. But once upon a day, all is to fall. And the first piece to fall in the board of hierarchy will be the king. Our history of fates will truly be empty, because we spent our whole lives tearing the flesh from our bones, trying to show to others that we are human. Some type of humanity to be spared and given like scraps of beautifully woven fabric that falls upon the floor in a seamstress shop.

I am to be a Queen, but a warrior just the same, my head is full of nuts and bolts and gears spinning with steam boiling with fury, but also love. But my heart is a machine, it beats for him on command. But also, to many, I am like a dog, my leash is my ring, my heart & my crown. 

author's note: this isn't what i usually do, but i decided to do since i feel like (by now) at least you should know that Dorothea, Harry and Louis are the main characters. And even if this is Larry fic i still want to make it really super detailed. So yeah, but how did we like this little sorta break from everything to peer into the character's mind/eyes. And, should I do this again? I'm not sure if I will, but I hope you enjoyed it!

All the love, stylezxsilvermoon

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[pisupsala]

Hitchin' a ride

Or two times you told John Egan no, and the one time you said yes.

Part 1 of Are You Going My Way?

John "Bucky" Egan x female!reader Words: 7k Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, hospitals

It gets dark early in winter in East Anglia. By the time you leave the ward, it’s pitch dark despite it barely being past dinner time. Huddled in your dark blue wool cape, you trudge along the side of the road, holding a small torch to light your way. There’s a cold, biting wind tonight, and it feels like it’s going through every layer you’re wearing, straight through your bones. Breath shuddering, you pick up your pace, the gravel barrier between the road and the grass crunching under your standard-issue brown boots. The faster you get back to the nurse’s barracks, the faster you’re out of this wind and soaking your sore feet and cold toes.

Thorpe Abbots sprawls strangely, but you usually don’t mind. The quiet walk at the end of the long shifts in the operating room, rounds on the intensive care ward, cleaning, and inventory is your moment of solace. A moment where you can finally let the smile fall off your face, where you can grit out the curses you've bitten back all day, the crinkle in time when you are allowing the tears to well up and drip down your face silently.

There is no textbook or training to prepare you for the horrific reality. Torn flesh, burns, and the blood. The fear and agony. The pained screaming. The blind panic.

You have never felt more that you are where you need to be, yet you are so completely and utterly powerless.

A light catches your eye, reflecting on the trees around you in a ghostly flicker. Glancing over your shoulder, the light floats through the darkness, gliding towards you. The soft ding of a bicycle bell pulls you out of your reverie. Turning fully, the light casting off your torch finally illuminates the figure on the bicycle. 

“Major Egan,” You greet him, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice. He has no reason to be here. There’s nothing down this road but the building with the nurses’ quarters. It’s not the first time you’ve encountered Major Egan somewhere he has no reason to be. But you, as an army nurse and merely a first lieutenant, are not about to question him on that.

“You shouldn’t be walking here alone at night, lieutenant,” He tells you, stopping next to you. You stop, too, taking a good look at him—because why wouldn’t you—as he gets off his bike. 

A little too friendly, a little too forward. His bright, sharp blue eyes are contrasted by luscious dark curls and that devilish smile. Tall, broad-shouldered, and moving with a confident grace, he is hard to miss. And if you were to somehow overlook him in a crowd, he commands, demands, attention. There is something dangerously magnetic about him, something electric.

You best keep your distance.

“Don’t worry about me, please, Major,” You reply politely. “It’s not late, and I know the way,” 

“Are you done for today?” He asks conversationally, smiling, his eyes crinkling happily. The tips of his ears are red from the cold. In the middle of a quiet road, in the dark, in freezing temperatures, it’s an odd place for polite conversation.

“Yes, I’m heading back to my quarters,” You smile. “Long day,” You add, hoping to cut the conversation short, desperately trying to suppress the full body shiver from the cold. You notice with some envy that Major Egan seems wonderfully unbothered by the biting wind in his sheepskin jacket. You nod at him, turning back in the direction you had been heading, gingerly taking a step. Hopefully, he gets the hint.

“I could give you a ride,” 

You stop dead in your tracks, looking back at him wide-eyed. 

“I’m heading in the same direction, so you’d get there quicker,” He beams at you with that brilliant smile, patting the carrier at the back of the bike. Instinctively, you start shaking your head, trying to keep yourself from vocalizing your thoughts.

You’d be out of the wind. You’d be in the warm faster. You’d have to get close to Major Egan and hold on to him. You bet that that sheepskin jacket is nice and warm. You bet Major Egan is nice and warm.

“Isn’t that the bike you almost lost an eye for?” Your sense of self-preservation is stronger, has to be stronger, than any magnetic force or joking flirtation from Major John Egan.

“Almost?” He seems surprised you brought it up but recovers quickly. “I remember it differently — it was a bullseye, not my eye,” 

He looks at you like he’s expecting you to laugh with him, but you just blink in disbelief. That’s an awful joke. For a mere second, in the reflected light of your torch, you see his smile falter—he’s smart; he knew that was a dud. You purse your lips.

“I suppose I like my rides without stories of near-eye trauma attached,” You muse. It’s such a flimsy excuse.  

“Do you think it’s bad luck?” It’s a chillingly honest question, and all cheer has suddenly disappeared from his voice. You pause to think. It hadn’t really occurred to you that Major Egan might be a particularly superstitious man; somehow, he didn’t seem the type. But in these times, superstition creeps up on even the most staunch rationalists.

“Luck has nothing to do with it, Major,” you finally admit, eyeing him carefully. He frowns, suddenly unsure of the gravity of the conversation through his own too-candid question. “I would just hate to encourage any of that sort of behavior,” You add lightly.

“So, you would have accepted if I had a different bike?” He sounds on the precipice of hopeful, but the laughter in his voice is evident again. He changes so quickly and bounces back from everything in a mere second — it’s all a joke, after all. He’ll do you a favor and then jokingly ask for a kiss. And then maybe another. And then he’ll move on to whatever or whoever catches his eye next. 

You wrinkle your nose. No. You’re not interested, you repeat to yourself. If you were, you might as well have stayed at home and practiced your good graces at dinner parties. You joined the Army Nurse Corps because you wanted to do something, mean something.

“I’m going now,” You clench your jaw to stop your teeth from clattering. “Good night, Major Egan,”

“Suit yourself, lieutenant,” He grins, undeterred, as he watches you turn on your heel, huddling into yourself to protect yourself from the wind. Truthfully, Bucky wasn’t expecting that you would accept his offer. If anything, he wanted to see how you’d react: your replies are always calm and composed, so very proper, but you have a bad poker face. From the way you scrunch up your nose in annoyance to how the corner of your mouth sometimes threatens to pull into a smile at his jokes. And Bucky notices that your gaze lingers just slightly longer than would be polite, although nothing coming out of your mouth would corroborate that. It’s adorable. It’s intriguing. And he knows you won’t make it easy on him.

But that’s not why he keeps thinking about you. That’s not why he goes out of his way to look for you.

You suddenly took root in his thoughts only a few weeks back. It had been a bad day. Worse than Bucky had seen in a while, there had been many bad days lately. 

Being Air Exec has some perks, mostly that other people don’t really question why he’s wandering the halls of the infirmary at the dead of night. In the hallway, set up on provisional cots, medics are asleep, still fully dressed. They just collapsed on the first soft spot the moment they could. He can hardly blame them.

His footsteps echo through the dark rooms. The wounded men in the beds are fast asleep — it’s eerily quiet except for the occasional snore. 

He’s not sure why he’s here. Maybe it’s to assuage some of the guilt he’s feeling — he’s fine after all. He didn’t go up with them, after all. Maybe because he needs to see the pain with his own eyes, afraid that he’ll forget.

The doctor on duty is doing rounds, his desk empty, when Bucky slips through the swinging double doors to where the heaviest casualties are put up. The air in the room feels different—heavier. It’s not quiet—labored breathing, raspy, sometimes gurgling, groans of pain in artificial sleep. He really shouldn’t be here. 

All beds are full.

It’s been a really bad day.

It’s there that he notices you first: sitting on the floor, arms crossed and tucked up against yourself, head leaning against the wall, and legs bent at an uncomfortable angle. In the first second, he thinks someone fell out of their bed. But as Bucky gets closer, he recognizes you — the seersucker cotton dress, the matching cap now crumpled and skewed on your head, and the clearly scuffed and dirty white oxfords. You are one of the OR nurses.

He’s seen you around, just in passing. In chaos between casualties, just from the corner of his eye. Sometimes, you showed up at dances or parties, and Bucky had noticed your cute laugh from across the room, the way your entire face lit up when you smiled. And he knows he’s not the only one who has noticed the delightful sway of your hips as you walk, evident even through your dress uniform. But you made damn sure to make yourself unavailable by sticking with your girlfriends. He’s never seen you accept a drink or dance with someone.

Your mouth is slightly open as you breathe deeply, your form cast in the pale moonlight peeking through the sides of the blinds. Bucky wouldn’t let a woman sleep on the floor in normal circumstances, but in this case, waking you up would be cruel — there isn’t a bed free in the whole hospital. And even bad sleep is better than no sleep.

He moves past you carefully, mentally putting names to all the men here. Those that made it. That’s a good thing, right? They made it. Bucky doesn’t recognize the figure moaning in pain louder and louder, hands desperately grasping at the neatly tucked-in covers —  his entire head is covered with a thick layer of white bandages, not even leaving a slit for his eyes, just a small opening for his mouth. He hesitates before his curiosity takes over and moves by the side of the bed to look closer. It’s a good thing, right?

He should do something to help him.

Bucky is so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice you brushing past him. He almost jumps out of his skin when your torch suddenly clicks on at the foot of the bed. You are bleary-eyed, blinking rapidly as your eyes fly over the patient chart. 

“He is due for a new round of pain medication,” You state softly, voice still thick with sleep, before looking up at Bucky. “Major,” is all you say in acknowledgment of him.

“Nurse—lieutenant,” He mumbles in reply, increasingly on edge from the patient’s distress. “What are you—” Before he can start running his mouth in confused ramble, you trust the torch at him.

“Hold this, please, Major,” Your voice is barely above a whisper, yet it cuts through the noises easily in its steadiness and calmness. The small torch is now in his hand, your fingers brushing over his palm unintentionally as you move through the dark. It’s like a small spark burned the spot where your fingertip touches his skin. “Up, please,”

Bucky complies, shining the light from a high angle as you prepare a syringe. You look exhausted, but nothing in your movement betrays that. Clinical, precise, and so calm. He watches you speak softly to your patient, your free hand wrapped loosely around his wrist, a syringe poised in the other. But the patient is struggling harder, too panicked, and in too much pain. 

It happens in a split second.

The patient sits up so quickly that Bucky almost stumbles back in surprise. The patient now has an iron grip on your lower arm, white knuckles, moving in a blind frenzy, pulling you clean off your feet, half over the bed. You yelp in as much surprise as in pain as your knee collides with the metal bed frame. Your face is contorted in pain as you struggle back, trying to regain your footing. 

“It’s okay, I’m here to help you,” You keep repeating patiently. Never let them know you are scared: they can’t calm down if you are not in control.

Your voice doesn’t waver one bit. Bucky clenches the small torch between his teeth, trying to free your arm from the patient’s grip. 

“N- no” You breathe, clearly in pain now. “Please, Major, just help me to hold him still,” 

You are still holding the syringe, poised to strike. Grabbing the patient by the shoulder and forcing him back against the pillow. In the struggle, the torch falls from his mouth. It clatters on the tile floor and rolls away. He is so focused on his task that it’s almost by surprise when the struggle ends within a few seconds, and the patient drifts off again. He never saw you give the injection.

You both stand there, breathing heavily. Bucky bends down to retrieve the torch from the floor. It’s still shining, although it flickers uncertainly with every move. When he straightens back up, he catches you looking at your arm, the brown sleeve of your vest rolled up messily. When you realize he’s looking at you, you pull the sleeve back down and busy yourself tucking the patient back in. But Bucky has seen the angry red fingerprints imprinted on your forearm.

“Thank you, Major Egan,” Not a quiver in your tone, although your breathing has barely slowed down. “It’s probably best you go now,” 

“Are you alright?” He cannot help but ask, gaze traveling to your arm. He can’t help but notice you must have been issued a vest a size up, as the sleeves are a bit too long on you. It’s adorable.

“Please don’t worry about me,” You reply, smiling, but it’s clearly a deflection. The corners of your mouth are quirked up, but your eyes just spell tired. “You should try to get some rest, Major. The sun will be up soon,”

There is a certain sense of irony in you telling him that. At least he has a bed to go to, you think wryly. You start walking towards the ward exit, signaling he should follow you. 

“Will you be okay here by yourself, lieutenant?” It’s not his place to worry about you, but you are just… you. And these men are in pain, scared, and -

“The doctor will be back from his rounds soon,” Your soft voice pulls Bucky from his thoughts. You stand at the door, holding it open for him. If he hadn’t just seen that chaos happen, he would have never guessed by your demeanor anything happened.  As he passes you, you salute him. He salutes you back, gazing over to you. The tips of your fingers are shaking. 

The thought is sudden and overwhelming: he wants to lace his fingers through yours, pull you against him, and hold you until you stop shaking.

“Goodnight, Major,” You whisper with a pointed look. You want him out of here so you can check on your throbbing knee and painful arm away from his prying eyes.

“Goodnight, lieutenant,” He replies, tearing his eyes away from you.

***

In early spring, it seems like the rain never stops, from semi-permanent drizzle to raindrops rhythmically ticking against the window pane to the torrential downpour you find yourself in now. The drab-colored trench coat is putting up a valiant fight to keep you dry.

You’re holding your purse over your head but to no avail. The cold trickle of water from your sodden hair travels down your spine. You’re trailing behind your friends, who are making good time through the storm. Water sloshes in your left boot, making it heavy, the drenched woolen sock rubbing painfully against your foot. 

Then you hear it. The all too-happy ding of a bicycle bell. 

You try to walk faster, gritting your teeth, but Major Egan has caught up with you in just seconds. You don’t stop to greet him, just glancing over at him with narrowed eyes. Gracefully, he jumps off the bike, matching your pace by foot easily. His dark curls are plastered to his forehead, his cap sagging under the weight of the water it must have absorbed. He shouldn’t look this good, sopping wet, especially when you feel so wretched.

“Lieutenant, I could get you where you need to be a whole lot quicker,” he calls out.

“No, thank you, Major,” Your tone is polite, but you keep walking, falling behind further and further from your friends as your left boot squelches with every step. You know he noticed. 

“You’re really not going to take me up on the offer? Even in this downpour?” 

“Most drops miss,” You can’t keep the scowl off your face as you march on. 

“You are so unbelievably stubborn,” He laughs. You don’t think you’re stubborn; you just don’t like feeling like your hand is being forced. 

“I don’t need you to save me, Major.” You tell him evenly, finally stopping and turning to him. You know your friends noticed you stopping but probably figured they were doing you a favor and kept going. 

Bucky regards you carefully — you look miserable. The curl has long been rained out of your hair; rivulets of water running down your face, dripping on the collar of your trench coat. The steep downturn of the corners of your mouth pretty much just seals the deal. But despite all the evidence, you would never admit you’re anything but fine. 

“Save you?” He sounds incredulous. Like the thought never even crossed his mind. 

You bite your lip — you might have said too much. But you are afraid that he might ask you for something if you owe Major Egan a favor. He will ask you for something. And you won’t be strong enough to tell him no maybe because you want him to ask. Who wouldn’t?

You’ve seen him look at you from across the room before, and when you scrape together the courage to meet his gaze, it’s like electricity. Short, intense, and almost painful. And then he looks away, his attention turning so fleetingly. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Forget it,” You mumble, clearly embarrassed. Closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, you wish nothing about this moment was happening right now. When you peek through your lashes at Major Egan, you note he looks concerned.

“For what it’s worth,” He clears his throat, not a trace of humor in his voice. “I never considered you to require saving, lieutenant.” 

You keep looking at him sharply, finally shaking your head. “You have a funny way of showing it.” 

There is something deeply absurd about the whole conversation. Just tell him no. Just bid him goodnight and leave. Why are you even entertaining him with your feelings on this? And it’s clearly entertainment to him.

“I’m going to my quarters now, Major,” You state, feeling the need to be polite despite your increasingly impolite feelings about the situation. “And you’re going in the wrong direction,” You add pointedly as you start walking again. It feels like you have an entire puddle in your boot now.

“So what would you prefer, lieutenant? A more classic approach?” That devastatingly handsome grin is back on his face again as he walks beside you. How is that what he took from your last statement? Your shoulders sag when you feel the butterflies in your stomach. “At the next dance, I buy you a drink and sweep you off your feet on the dance floor?” 

“I might be more agreeable when it’s not freezing or raining,” You sigh like it’s paining you to admit it. Maybe he’s imagining it, but Bucky likes to think he saw the shadow of a smile pass over your face as you say it, even though your voice is painfully neutral. 

“Is that a yes?” Again, that hopeful edge. 

“No,” You reply curtly, but you feel bad the moment you say it because you see his smile fall — he’s staring at you somewhere between confusion and growing frustration. It’s making you feel bad. A horrible little selfish part of you wants him to only smile at you. Major Egan could light up a room with that smile — he regularly does. The selfish little monster in you wants to be the reason that he smiles like that. 

“Ask me again at the dance, Major,” You amend carefully.

The way his face breaks out in that broad, beaming smile makes you weak at the knees. 

***

Bucky is on pins and needles tonight. Even Buck, usually so even-tempered, is getting irritated with him. Drumming his fingers on the bar, tapping his foot not to the beat of the music but to blow off some of the anxious energy. People are flittering in and out of the hall, but there is no sign of you yet. He’s going through his whiskey too quickly, and it’s doing very little to calm his anticipation.

After an hour of only half-listening to the conversation going on around him, constantly glancing at his watch, he finally sees the pack of nurses come in. Bucky’s heart drops a little because you aren’t with the group. You’re always with that group. Knocking back the rest of his drink, he resolutely makes his way to the table now occupied by five gossiping nurses. All eyes are on him as he approaches.

“Good evening, ladies,” He smiles, eyes searching the table. All chairs are occupied — clearly, your friends aren’t saving you a seat. A chorus of good evenings and giggles comes in reply.

“How can we help you, Major Egan?” A blonde nurse asks, peering up through her lashes.

“I’m actually looking for my favorite nurse,” He replies easily, holding his smile despite feeling mildly annoyed. When he mentiones your name, another chorus of giggles. 

“I thought I was your favorite nurse,” One of the girls pipes up. The girls burst out laughing.

“She’s on the night shift,” An earnest, young-looking nurse cuts in, pushing up her glasses. Bucky doesn’t really recognize her — she must be quite new. “I asked to switch shifts because I haven’t been to a dance here before.”

“You should have found someone from the afternoon shift,” the blonde nurse sighs in a bored tone. “The poor girl is putting in a double shift now,”

“No one else would switch with me,” The bespectacled nurse defends herself with a small voice.

Bucky should be annoyed. Did you scheme this out on purpose? You run so hot and cold between your lingering looks and thinly veiled barbs. But then again. Of course, you would switch shifts with the new girl out of kindness. You slept on the floor to stay close to those most needed care. Doc sang your praises in the officer’s mess regularly for staying late to finish inventory, covering in emergencies, and keeping the OR running smoothly. Kindly caring for everyone around you.

He should be annoyed. But instead, he feels jealous. It’s a horrible feeling. But you cared more about the new girl than him? Is it really so bad that he wants your kind attention aimed at him? That he wants to be your choice? You wouldn’t even give him a shot. 

It just won’t do. But now, at least, he knows where to find you.

At the end of the dark hall, a faint light. A lone lamp on a lone desk, with a lone nurse sitting at it. You hear him coming, of course. Your bright eyes look straight at him as he emerges from the darkness. You are already getting up out of your chair, ready to greet him, notes and medical textbook forgotten on the desk.

“Good evening, Major Egan,” you greet him, your voice soft. Your gentle tone carries sweetly through the quiet hall. You didn’t expect him to come find you. It feels far too serious, far too earnest. You haven’t seen or spoken to Major Egan for over a week now, and for your own sake, you decide that he hadn’t been serious—that you hadn’t been serious. It was just banter.

Truthfully, you were slightly relieved the new girl asked you to switch shifts. But as you sat at the duty desk by yourself, blankly staring at the pages of your medical textbook, your stomach twisted painfully with regret. 

“Good evening, lieutenant -” you cut him off with a sharp shush, tapping your index finger against your lips. You step a bit closer to him, voice a sweet whisper. “Please keep it down,” 

A beat of silence as you’re both clearly uncomfortable in the strange situation you have suddenly found yourself in.

“How can I help you, Major?” You whisper politely as your eyes nervously, guiltily, dart around the room—anywhere but him. He looks sharp in his dress uniform. He smells nice. He clearly made an effort. And you’re standing here in your day-old hospital uniform. Self-consciously, you try to straighten the standard-issue white and brown stripe wrap-around dress. 

“I came looking for my favorite nurse,” Bucky replies sincerely, eyes boring into yours. 

“Then you must not be looking for me,” The words tumble out before you can stop yourself. Bucky nearly bursts out laughing at the pained look that crosses your face as you clamp your mouth shut. 

“I was waiting for you to show up at the dance,” He says with that same heavy sincerity. His stance is casual, hands in pockets and shoulders relaxed. But the way he fidgets — tapping and shuffling his foot — as he waits for you to reply hints that he is not nearly as calm as he’d like to appear.

“I had to stay,” You reply, still avoiding his gaze. It’s a half-truth. You could have said no. But the new girl seemed to want to go to the dance more badly than you did. It felt unfair. And you had convinced yourself quite thoroughly that Major Egan wouldn’t care or notice anyway.

Another silence falls. Neither quite sure where to go from here.

“How are the boys doing?” Bucky asks conversationally, reaching out to the large doors leading into the intensive care unit. On a whim, you grab his hand before he touches the handle, your fingers gently wrapping over the top of his large hand. He stills, and for a moment, you think he’ll shake your hand off his. But instead, he waits in acceptance.

“It won’t help you,” You whisper. It took you a while to figure out why Major Egan was in the hospital that night. When people spoke of him, they spoke of how much he cared for his men — a heavy burden to bear.

“Help me?” His voice is suddenly loud. He is offended at the notion that he’s doing it for himself and offended that you called him out like that. He opens his mouth again to argue with you.

Startled by the volume, your brain misfires fully, and instead of replying, your free hand reaches out to his face, your index finger landing on his soft lips to silence him. He stares at you wide-eyed. You are sure you look as shocked as he does. You try to gather your thoughts quickly.

“I - I understand,” You implore him in an urgent whisper, finally looking at him. Bucky sees his own sorrow reflected in your eyes. 

Sometimes, you can only wait. There is no next round of medicine; there is no operation that will help. Waiting for the body to do its work can be frustrating and maddeningly slow.

“But there is nothing you can do now, so going in won’t help you or them,” You swallow. Why is your finger still on his lips, and why is he letting you do that? “They need to rest. You need to rest.”

His fingers lace through yours as he steps closer. It’s inappropriate how close he is standing to you. It’s inappropriate how the tips of your fingers caress the seam of his lips. It’s inappropriate how your hand has latched onto his, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the pulse point of your wrist.

“I don’t need rest.” His voice is soft and close. The intimacy of his lips moving against your fingers is intense, each breath setting your nerve endings on fire. He leans into your touch, trailing from the corner of his mouth to his jaw. Finally, you look at him.

“Then what do you need?” Your question comes automatically. Always looking for how to help. Always so kind. He could melt into your soft touch, warm voice, and how you look at him so sweetly.

“I need to know when you’re done here so I can sweep you off your feet,” His eyes meet yours, keenly following your every move. 

You want to take a step back and break the increasingly feverish connection, away from his oddly earnest confession, but Bucky pulls you closer with a small tug on your hand. Your head is swimming; your heart is hammering in your chest. You shouldn’t entertain any of this, but it feels like your heart is pouring out of your mouth.

“My shift ends at 0500,” 

Bucky grins at you—not in a teasing way, but with that infectious broad smile—the one you cannot help but smile back. It gives you butterflies. You’re smiling at him now, beautifully, genuinely. It feels like a victory to Bucky.

“I’ll keep the party going if you promise me the last dance.” His voice is low and inviting; he is reeling you in further with every word.

“Don’t torture everyone on my account, please,” You feebly try to inject some levity into the situation. You know yourself well enough: you are no match for John Egan and his attentions. From sparks across the room, now it’s like you’ve touched the live wire, and the current has a hold on you. That’s why you always avoided him so.  

“Torture? Darling, it’s a party,” He needles you gently, eyes glinting merrily. “Only you would equate that to torture.” 

“Major -,” “Bucky,” He interjects. You blink at him, biting your lip. 

“Bucky, please,” The moment you utter his name, so beguilingly, so breathlessly, he presses your palm against his face fully, his hand covering yours. He needs you closer. The golden buttons of his jacket brush against the front of your dress. His lips press against the soft flesh of your hand as he studies your reaction. The hitch in your breath is embarrassingly loud to your ears. 

“Please, what?” 

“Don’t torment me like this,” It sounds even more pathetic when you say it out loud. And exactly as you’d expect, the admission of your weakness, the slightest chink in your armor, is an in for him. 

“How do I torment you, exactly?” His voice is so warm, so encouraging. 

“You take far too much pleasure in making fun of me, for one,” You try to play it off in a last-ditch attempt. But under his heated gaze, his breath brushing on the sensitive skin of your wrist, you falter. You frown before you utter in a small voice: “It’s not nice how you toy with me, Bucky, because it’s obvious that… that it’s just a joke to you, and your idea of a joke could get me dismissed, and sent home,”

You look down at your shoes, embarrassed. You want to pull away, but Bucky is not allowing you an inch of slack.

“It’s not a joke to me.” He sounds surprised. You look up at him, unable to keep the skepticism off your face. “It wasn’t a joke from that night I saw how calmly you handled that panicked patient, the moment you saluted me with those shaky fingers, and then every time you denied my help, you stubborn, stubborn girl,” His face is so close to yours now; a finger tracing down the side of your neck, down, just along the collar of your dress, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The way your hand rests on his cheek, you could pull him even closer if you wanted to. “I’ve wanted to grab hold of you, wrap you around me-”

Footsteps. You pull back from Bucky with a jerky movement, who mercifully releases you immediately, stumbling back two steps, almost hitting the desk with your legs. It’s strangely cold suddenly without his hands wrapped around yours, without him so close you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. Blood is rushing in your ears. Bucky looks too collected, but to your relief, you spy a faint blush creeping up his neck. 

So it wasn’t just you.

Hands folded, you take another furtive step back behind the desk, making sure there’s a respectable distance between you as the doctor on duty turns the corner. Bucky and the doctor start talking in low voices, but you are not listening. In your mind, you keep returning to his words, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. 

That night on the ward. That was the first time you spoke and saw each other in more than passing. That’s when Bucky suddenly formed this habit of popping in places he had no business of being. Places you happened to frequent. You really hadn’t been vain enough to consider that the common denominator in those situations was you. It had to be a coincidence that he had just turned into a joke. 

“Nurse,” The doctor turns to you, handing you his clipboard. You nearly jump out of your skin, being so lost in thought. “Please update the log,”

“Yes, doctor,” You nod, trying not to look as flustered as you feel. The men start leaving, still talking. 

“Good night, lieutenant,” Bucky turns to you, unable to keep the cocky smile off his face. Before he turns, he winks at you. It makes your knees so weak you nearly collapse back into your chair. Covering your face with your hands, you try to focus, but the smile won’t come off your face.

Seven more hours until your shift ends.

***

It’s a misty summer morning, dew covering every inch. The sun is just breaking through the clouds, and it’s promising to be a beautiful day.

When you leave the infirmary, you blink against the early morning sun. It’s still so early that few people are around. You hesitate. Surely, the party is not still going on. You wouldn’t put it past Bucky to actually do it. Rubbing your eyes and yawning, you’re unsure if you could even stay on your feet long enough for a dance.  

Luckily, you don’t have to make a choice. 

The sound of the bicycle bell makes you smile now. Bucky’s looking remarkably fresh and well-rested. The party clearly didn’t go that far into the night. He dressed for duty, his signature sheepskin jacket hanging open.

“Are you going my way, darling?” 

You purse your lips because you’re fighting to keep the smile off your tired face. You don’t stand a chance. You dart over to him like you are pulled by a magnetic force, the live current arching between you.

Sliding onto the back of the bike, you grab handfuls of the thick sheepskin to steady yourself, trying to find your equilibrium. Bucky’s large, warm hands encircle your wrists and easily pull your hands off his jacket. Instead, he gently nudges you forward by your arms, tucking them under the side of his jacket, wrapping your arms around his waist. The side of your face is resting against his back. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm, resting just under his sternum; you move along with his every breath.

“Ready?” Bucky peers over his shoulder. 

“Hm–mh,” You hum in reply, face buried in the folds of Bucky’s jacket. “Drop me off before the last turn?” You mumble, gazing up at him pleadingly. “Matron will be awake and on the prowl by now,”

“Don’t worry, darling,” His free hand wraps over yours, pressing a kiss on your knuckles. “I’m not going to get you into any trouble,”

“I’m holding you to that,” You yawn, wrapping yourself around him tighter. You’re going to make the most of this moment — the quiet morning, the soft sheepskin, the smell of Bucky’s aftershave. 

You drift in and out of sleep, even though the trip by bike is tortuously short. After almost twenty hours on shift, you should be allowed this comfort. Whining in protest as Bucky starts to unlatch your arms from him, you feel his chuckle as much as you hear it. 

You slide off the back of the bike, ignoring where the metal was jabbing into your backside on the bumpy road, and rub your eyes, trying to get rid of the haze in your vision. A small yelp escapes you as Bucky tugs you against him by the tie at the waist of your wraparound seersucker dress. The bike lays forgotten in the grass by the side of the road. All the tension and anticipation from last night are suddenly back — you feel wide awake again.

Bucky’s fingers are resting lightly against your waist like he is testing the waters, slowly, gently guiding you closer to him until you are inches away from him. Automatically, your hands sneak back up his jacket, running up his sides to the front of his chest. He is so warm against the crisp morning air. 

“Are you going to ask me for a kiss now?” It comes out almost naively as you look up at him. God, you hope he says yes.

“I promised not to get you into trouble,” He teases gently, grinning, inclining his face closer anyway, his lips just ghosting over the corner of your mouth. He is rewarded with a shuddering sigh from you — his grip on your waist tightens, prompting you to close the remaining distance between you. 

“This, of course, is perfectly innocent,” Only you could be looking at him with those big eyes, full of want, your curious fingers roaming over his chest, and still speak so earnestly. Bucky buries his face in the crook of your neck, shaking from laughter. You wrap yourself around him, head buzzing. It’s like you’re short-circuiting, sparks flying with every move, every breath. 

Bucky nips at the sensitive flesh of your neck, hoping to elicit more of those small sounds from you. If it weren’t for the quiet morning, remnants of mist dissolving in the first light, he would have missed the softest moan of his name that falls from your lips. He could do this all day. Just explore every move of your body against his, every way you can say his name, every touch that brings you closer to him. You move in effortless synchronicity with him, purely on instinct. 

“Then it’s trouble you want, darling?” Bucky murmurs, pressing kisses along your jaw.

“It’s only trouble if we get caught,” You reply breathlessly. 

His finger is under your chin, tilting your face up to him, and finally, Bucky’s lips find yours. For a second, it’s just that: his lips pressed softly, almost chastely, against yours. You push yourself up on your tiptoes to get more leverage, wrapping your arm around his neck. Your other hand stays pressed against his chest, fisting his shirt, feeling how his heartbeat speeds up as you open your mouth for him with a sigh. Bucky doesn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss, cupping your face. His other hand is roaming boldly over your back, applying light pressure on your spine so you arch into him, skimming just over the curve of your behind, playfully tugging at the ribbon of your wraparound dress. He knows exactly what he is doing and how to get exactly what he wants from you, and you’re more than eager to please.

Your mouth starts to tentatively explore the column of his neck as he whispers your name longingly, encouraging your little adventure. When your lips touch a particularly sensitive spot right under his ear, Bucky hisses — you can feel his muscles clench. It’s exhilarating; he feels the sparks as much as you do. Bucky doesn’t allow you to bask in your small victory too long, greedily capturing your mouth with his again, wrapping you around him, tucking you against him. His soft touch turns feverish, grasping at your hip. You match in kind, nails grazing the nape of his neck, just along his hairline — anything to keep the tension, the current arching.

You can feel the sunshine on your skin and see it through closed eyes. Breathlessly, you pull away just a fraction — Bucky’s lips are still ghosting over yours. 

“What’s wrong, darling?” He asks so softly you’re unsure if you heard or felt the words against your lips.

“I have to go,” You mumble as you move to stand feet flat on the ground again. It’s like waking up from a dream. Time is getting away from you. You’re not ready to pull away from Bucky yet, wanting to stretch the moment out. You gently fix his collar, running your hands over his front once more, as much in an attempt to straighten out the wrinkles you left on his shirt as to feel him move under your palm again. When he steps away from you, you release a shuddering breath. You feel like you’ve just been hit by lighting. 

“I’ll come find you,” He winks at you, grinning. Bucky presses a kiss to your forehead, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture feels intimate, more personal, than you could have imagined.

It was everything you feared happening when you said yes to John Egan. It was everything you dreamed it to be. As you watch him leave, you know that you’ll have a damn hard time giving that up. 

“I’ll be waiting.” 

note: this was literally supposed to be a quick 2k words fun meet cute kind of thing, just a quick adventure Morty, but oh god I'm in too deep. forgive me for this detour from Of All The Stars in The Sky, but it was necessary, you understand.

[fanaticsnail]

It's been a while

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 2,900+

Synopsis: Trafalgar Law has been missing his favorite courier, so at the encouragement of his first mate, he is prompted to do something about it.

Themes: Trafalgar Law x Box "Cottontail" Mila, fluff, long distance relationships, fluff, hurt / comfort, pining, longing from afar, den-den mushi, Law is tired, Law is missing his special person.

Notes: This is my half of the trade organized through the OC Discord Server for @bloglop and her beautiful OC, Mila. She gave me such a cute art piece for my Tobiuo x Heat 'Teat' ship, and I love it. I hope you like my half for your beautiful Mila! Divider by @/firefly-graphics.

Warmth swelled within the cool heart of the dark-haired captain, his chest ignited beneath the blaze of anticipated relief. Honey eyes briefly widening, they relax as his smile illuminated his cheeks with an emotion Trafalgar Law had not allowed himself to experience in so long. He knew it; he saw it every day of his life growing up in Flevance. His parents had it when their eyes met in the early hours of the day, he saw it in his sister’s eyes when she looked at her favorite desserts. 

Love.

Trafalgar Law was in love. 

Rolling on her heels to the balls of her feet, the twitching anxiousness was demonstrated within the grip of parchment clutched against her chest. Another delivery for the Tang: likely the recipe exchange Penguin set up between Sanji and Killer at the last meeting with Strawhat crew and the Victoria Punk.

“Mila,” Law sighed, his voice feeling foggy at the edges, echoing within the halls of the Polar Tang. He shook his head, shrugging off the tension and apprehension from his mind as he picked up speed. 

Trying not to seem overeager in seeing his lover so close to him fled his thoughts, he physically couldn’t contain it any longer. He needed Mila in his arms, embraced fully against his chest and lifted up into his arms. 

He wanted her, needed her, craved her in a way that felt like a part of him was missing: a part only she could fill with her presence. That little laugh, that soft stutter when she’s trying to hold her enthusiasm back, the way her ears would extend and tail would protrude when she was nervous, the buzz of life that illuminated and vibrated with excitable static. He craved to have all of that within his arms, lips touching so intimately close: sharing breaths and heartbeats as he entwined himself against her in an encumbering embrace. 

His feet carried him closer, further and faster than he could ever dream of. Ignoring the wind-smudged faces of his crew, Law simply sprung hurriedly towards Mila like an iron ball from a cannon barrel. 

Turning slowly towards her, the orange-hue of her widened orbs lit up and rose with her smile behind it. Expending her arms towards him, Law couldn't help but spring to close the distance between them. Hoisting her into the air, and with a large twirl to expel all the parchment from her tanned satchel. The pages seemed to float beside them as if meeting with water, held in stasis beside them while Law met his eyes against hers. 

Inked hands pressed at the back of her neck, toying with the finer hair growing at the base of her scalp, he drew her into his face. Lips finally colliding, he seared into her all emotion he craved to give her through his intense kiss. Expecting the common softness to her lips, his brows furrowed where all he could feel was a coarse scratch on his skin. Parting his mouth and deepening his kiss, her lips tasted of ink blotches and black coffee stains. He shook it from his thoughts, holding on tighter and refusing to be pried from her, her embrace felt different. 

“Law?” Mila’s voice ricocheted within his mind: sounding muffled as if forced to speak with a muzzle over her lips. Shaking his head, he gripped her tighter and more intently. Hands roaming and wandering, her skin felt cool to the touch and almost like steel. 

“Law?” her voice sounded several tones too deep, prompting Law to almost break away from her lips pressed against his and look up into her eyes. But he couldn’t, he was too overwhelmed by the fact she was hare, and she was finally back, to care about anything else. 

Mila’s hand gently reached up and grasped his shoulder, pinching and rolling the flesh between her perched digits. Shaking him from her, her strength managed to pull him away from her and force his eyes to fall on hers. 

“Mila?”

All he could see in lieu of his lover was a sheet of pale paper with stains of ink and black coffee. 

He had fallen asleep at his desk once again. After too many sleepless nights of peering over the edge of the Polar Tang, hoping the figure beyond the horizon was a small blotch of pink blur, he finally fell prone to the melody of sleep. Thin, paper pages stuck to his face as he jolted upright, looking immediately to the large, white fur that clutched onto his shoulders. 

“Just me, Captain,” Bepo sighed softly, a small amount of sorrow caged at the corner of his tone, “I'm sorry I'm not Mila. It's-... It's been a while, hasn't it, sir?” The Polar bear mink gently reached for the page affixed to Law's face, peeling it from his skin and placing it back down in a neat pile in front of him. Several words from the parchment transported onto his skin, words in reverse staining his pores by marking his face with its blotches. 

“It's… it's been a while, yeah,” he chuckled dryly, drawing his thumb and index finger up to pinch his eyes in a bid to pry the sleep from them, “M’sorry, Bepo. How long was I-?”

“-You need to call her, sir,” the first-mate spoke over his Captain. Bepo’s dark eyes seemed to command him, prompting Law to feel taken aback by the notion. He was not used to the large bear giving him commands, and making a call to his lover seemed an odd thing for him to get up in arms about. 

Law sighed, smearing his hand down his face before taking his chin in his hands. Although Law seemed to raise a smile to his lips, there was no real joy in his expression. He was truly lost, a man without direction and plagued with more sleep deprivation than he was truly able to withstand. 

“Look, Bepo,” Law chuckled, drawing his hand down to the desk in front of him, “I don't even know where she is right now. She could be legions away-.”

“-She’s on Komugi Island, delivering the outcome of a contract for intention for betrothal,” Bepo stated in a matter of fact way, fishing up the slumbering transponder snail and placing it on Law’s desk, “She’s staying at an accommodation close to the Charlotte’s. Call her. Please call her, sir.”

Law groaned at the pushiness of his first mate, rolling his eyes and reaching for the transponder. Tapping the shell awake, he offered it a small piece of lettuce he kept on his desk for it in payment for being awakened so abruptly. Looking up at Bepo, he shook his head with his exhaustion hanging on the small puffs of his elevated eye-bags. 

“There a number I need to dial?” Law asked Bepo, who hastily spat the digits immediately. With a small grunt in gratitude with a hidden and flustered smile, Law waved Bepo away from the room and excused himself to the company of himself and the snail. 

Gently rolling onto her back, Mila toyed anxiously with the ends of her blush-colored hair. The accommodation on Komugi Island made her feel more dwarfed than ever, and she was relatively tall. The land of giants, with a tyrant overlord that could potentially lose their temper with the outcome of Mila’s delivery, was otherwise quite welcoming. The minister of flour ensured her safety, the room was comfortable, and the food was incredibly sweet and playful. 

The one thing that she felt truly absent from this experience was her friend and lover, the captain of the Heart Pirates. She wanted to be with him a little more often lately, but she wasn't quite sure why. There was something in the way her heart sang to him in the quiet hours.

Her body became rigid as she rolled over to her side to move within a curled position beneath the blankets. She drew up the linen material in a bid to press more weight into her. The warmth provided beneath the blankets was comforting, but it wasn't what she truly wanted. 

She wanted Law. 

Her job had her darting her lanky legs around all of the blues and beyond: hopping between ports within the grand line, and sprinting as a courier to deliver packages in a timely manner. She had formed connections, made bonds, curated an eclectic assortment of clients, and was a trusted ally to all those who depended on her services. She was good at her job, and her reputation by word of mouth shepherded her everywhere. 

But it didn't manage to take her to the Polar Tang for some time. She missed it. The yellow submarine piloted by her beloved, hat-wearing, broody captain that she hoped cherished her as much as she did him. She loved him, and wanted to stay with him and hold him within his quarters and his office until she was certain he would eventually become sick of her. 

It had been a while since Mila had experienced love in her heart, and when she met and learned about Law, it hit her like the reputable ‘gum-gum-pistol’ from their Straw-Hat ally. Love hit her so hard, she almost felt like her legs would buckle beneath its weight every time she saw him. 

But, unfortunately for the both of them, she still had a job to do. She hoped she would come across someone who was in need of a courier to deliver a package to the Tang, but for now, she lay quietly buzzing with energy beneath the weight of the heavy duvet. 

The Zoan-Fruit user always had trouble sleeping when facing a trial like this. A client may be disgruntled by a letter, and often want to keep her around to formulate an appropriate response to send back. Mila would get stuck in the crossfires often, and remind them softly: ‘I am just the courier, but I will ensure to relay your objectives when I deliver your response.’ She was nothing if not professional, and professional, she was. 

Struggling to find rest, Mila scrunched her eyes shut and focussed on the sounds of her environment. Sizzling plates from the restaurant outside, the chirp of sweet bug song, the thumping of her anxious blood flooding her face, the soft purr of her carrier snail ringing on her desk-.

-Mila jolted upright, throwing the duvet off her body with the expectation that her client was calling her into the main keep to relay her response to the outcome of the betrothal. Putting on her best ‘professional’ voice, Mila took a deep breath as her lips curled around her words. Just as she tasted those first syllables on her tongue, she halted at the voice on the other end. 

“Cottontail? You there?” 

She froze. Her skin almost buzzed with the haste her shock managed to sizzle beneath her flesh. Each follicle stood like static ignited the ends of her pink tufts as her eyes flew wide. Lip quivering, hastily split her lips up into a radiant and broad grin. 

“Law?” She almost squeaked, managing to compose herself enough to answer tastefully, “I’m here. I was just about to turn in for the night.” She heard Law gently huff out a curse alongside a subtle whisper of ‘time difference, I'm an idiot,’ which rose a flutter in her chest. 

Silence fled from the Den-Den, an awkwardness once again present between the two of them. Neither spoke, nor made a single sound to alert the other was present. The only knowledge that another person was on the end of the transceiver was the fact that it was their snails we're awake. 

As Mila plopped down on her bed once more, the snail tucked against her pillow and laying comfortably on the heavy linen, Law had managed to sneak into his personal quarters from his office, gently doing the same. 

Law’s personal Den-Den buzzed gently as he lay his head down on the pale cerulean silks of his firm pillow. Considering his earlier doze, he was still feeling groggy and lethargic while his head felt heavier than what his neck could truly carry. Rolling onto his side, he blinked his heavy eyelids and spoke softly into it. 

“What are…? What are you up to right now?” Law asked barely with a breath, his inhale and exhale softening out at the corners. He could almost feel Mila’s smile through the snail, picturing her face as his eyelids finally grew too heavy to remain open. 

“I'm in bed, talking with you,” Mila offered gently in return, lulling him into a soft tranquility with her voice. Law smiled, nuzzling against the bedsheets and drawing up his legs to become more comfortable. He hummed a small chuckle in return with a light flush rising in his dark cheeks. 

“You're right here with me, are you?” Law’s question ignited Mila’s cheeks with that rosy tint he loved to see with her fluster. 

“I'm right there,” she confessed with a little shrug in her shoulders, neatly tucking herself within her blankets and nestling them around herself. Gently rising her question in her chest, she felt the small amount of fluttering anxiety swelling her heart, truly wanting him to answer honestly and truthfully. “Are you…? Are you here with me too?” 

Not even a beat of a butterfly's wing passed between them as Law graced her with his answer. 

“I'm there. I'm right there beside you, and,” Law halted his words, taking his time to stretch his lips through a yawn of exhaustion, “I'm gonna be there with you until the morning. Are you tired?” 

“I'm not tired at all, are you?” Mila asked in response, trying to choke down the emotion at the ease his response gave to her. Through this trip, this trial of delivering such an important contract with the Charlotte's and the response they got from the recipient, it truly weighed on her. The exhaustion that came from it, the sorrow she felt at the lack of deliveries with the Tang, the way she truly wanted nothing more to be curled up in Law's quarters and listening to him talk about the latest addition to his coin collection - everything felt so raw at this moment. 

At such an innocent and easy question, and hers in return, she felt the well of emotions rise up in her chest and swell behind the closed dam of her teeth. 

Almost in a sense only captain's and doctors seemed to comprehend, and in the comfort Law truly wanted to receive from his beautiful courier, he whispered against the microphoned end of the snail. 

“Mila, I need you to talk,” he confessed to her, feeling the weight of his own release, “I need to hear your voice, I need to hear about your day, and I need to-...” He choked on his admission, feeling heavy and vulnerable as he laid in his bed, “...I haven't been able to sleep properly. I need to sleep, and you… You always seem to be able to help me switch off. Can you do that for me? I promise it won't take long-.”

“-I’ll do it, Captain,” she cut him off, her eagerness causing Law to chuckle in a low tone. “I'll talk your ear off, and I won't stop even if you beg me to.” Mila tucked herself completely in, laying on her back, and thinking where in her journey she should start her tale.

Recounting the initial retrieval of the response from the recipient of the Charlotte family’s proposal, she began spurting a relay of every event that transpired from there. Traveling the seas, running as fast as her legs could take her, meeting Charlotte Linlin and her sons: Oven, Cracker, and Katakuri, she spoke on it all. 

Every syllable the pink-haired Zoan-Fruit user was a sweet melody to the exhausted captain. Mila would ask questions to gauge where he was in his exhaustion, and Law would go from asking a question in return, to a one-worded answer, to a small grunt or moan in response. 

As Mila spoke on, the slow blinks from Law’s eyes opening a crack would reveal his Den-Den shell in one moment, before dissipating to see Mila in all her cottontail glory beside him in the next. She was there, truly there, and he felt every second of it. The scent of her perfume, the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair, the smile on her lips: she was right there as she spoke within his mind’s eye.

Smiling, his chest rose and fell with each passing moment Mila would speak to him. He was prompted to set internal reminders to order some flour and sweets from Komugi island for the crew, utilizing Mila's service and giving her a reason to be with him. His rationale dictated it would be good for morale, and Penguin would appreciate the fresh produce.

Whereas all Law wanted was Mila.  As he drempt, all he pictured was the waves of lengthy pink hair from the back of Mila, holding her close in his dreams as she spoke. 

The next morning, he woke to hearing the soft rustle of Mila’s snores from the disgruntled and sleep deprived Den-Den snail, prompting him to give it a look of softened pity. A few small gentle taps to the eyeballs of the snail seemed to cause it comfort, so he continued to do so while he moved it over to the desk in the corner of his quarters. 

He waited until she woke naturally, truly reveling in the way her little sleep sounds were truly and distinctively hers. This only spurred him on to craft a finer arrangement of items he invented to guide her home to him. He wanted her home with him.

Their home, together, right there on the Polar Tang.

[milabeedoodling]

NGGGGH sad traumatized catboy

This is from drowning (in plain sight) by @buggachat and I'm dying to know what happens next and I don't know if I'll be able to handle it xD

[19catsncounting]

I'm even less normal about Samifer in 2024 than I was in 2010, so here are some random Samifer/Angel headcannons I've come up with for my fic:

The Enochian language is genderless and the very foundation of it rests heavily on Names. An angel's POV would pretty much only refer to themselves as "the angel/the 'class of angel'/Name" (Basically all angels are Lorathi for GRRM nerdos). Before The Fall, Lucifer's name was Samael, but that name was stripped away during The Fall so that Lucifer can no longer refer to themselves as that, and a hole was punched in the Song of Creation to remove the name "Samael," and replace it by adjective titles like "Lucifer."

The first real act of creation by God, when he became God and began to pull away from The Darkness instead of trying to create things just to prove their worth to her, was creating light that was then split into the first four archangels. Michael is therefore not just God's firstborn son, but the first thing in all of creation. (And he's remarkably chill about it)

When God created Gabriel, the idea struck him to create things in his own image, which is why Gabriel is Like That, with God's sense of humor and propensity to Run The Fuck Away from conflict.

Lucifer manipulated events, possibly all the way back to Babylon, to not only try to plant the name "Samael" into the human lexicon but also make sure Sam was named as close to their own name as possible. (This is Super Weirdo Behavior. Michael Did Not need to put his name on Dean like a pair of underwear packed for summer camp.)

Sam thinks that Lucifer is flirting in a super dramatic angel way when they refer to Sam as "the only one throughout all of existence and all of creation," only to find out that alongside Boy King of Hell and True Vessel of Lucifer and The Abomination, another little epithet that existed eons before he was born was "Throughout All Of Existence And All of Creation, Sam Winchester Is The Last And Only Gift For Lucifer Created By God Himself."

"Lucifer's Nephillim" is a metaphor for something completely impossible in Enochian, as in "humans inventing the microwave is as likely as Lucifer creating a nephillim."

Before The Fall, Lucifer commanded the Cherubim, which includes the lower-class "Cherubs," but before humans they were all extremely powerful warrior angels second only to Michael's Seraphim. After The Fall, the ones that didn't die in the struggle were demoted and cast out and put on "grunt duty" on earth, which in turn broke and warped them into the "Cherubs" that they are today due to constant and close proximity with humans.

Angels like autistic heavens because we're the closest humans get to perceiving the Song of Creation in our senses. Lucifer's gonna get trapped by God inside a girl who's autistic about crabs.

Lucifer's first vessel Nick is actually named Nick Campbell, and he's Mary Winchester's first cousin who ran away and became a carpenter instead of a hunter because Fuck You Dark!Fic Nick Storyline I Cared Who Nick Was 8 Years Before The CW Did.

[missdarhk]

hellooo

(to be clear im the one commenter talking about ares and ody pranking poseidon in ur au)

wanted to re-emphasize how good ur fic is, also wanted to interact w more people obsessed with epic bc epic is like half my life atm (the hyperfixation is real...)

anyways re ur post about english, that's honestly so valid, and im a native english speaker

in 9th grade we had to do an entire unit on how to use an apostrophe. in an english-speaking school in an english-speaking country. in a class of native english speakers.

english is such a silly (/neg) language tbh i've seen native speakers with absolutely atrocious grammar and spelling

anyways enjoy these two of my favorite images demonstrating why english is so absurd...

and there was going to be this other image but i was rereading it and noticed that there was this one sentence that was actually really offensive so im going to type out the ones that arent lol

The bandage was wound around the wound.

The farm was used to produce produce.

The dump was so full it had to refuse more refuse.

We must polish the Polish furniture.

He could lead if he would get the lead out.

The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.

Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.

A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.

When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.

I did not object to the object.

There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.

They were too close to the door to close it.

And finally, read and lead rhyme, and so do read and led. But read and lead don't rhyme, and neither do read and read.

(For bonus pronunciation shenanigans, look up The Chaos by G. Nolst Trenite. For bonus definition shenanigans, look up contronyms. Dust means to remove the dust from and to sprinkle with a powder or dust.)

hi!!! (big fan of the pranking idea)

thank you, you're so sweet! and I GET IT. epic has consumed all of my thoughts, it's in everything I see now. I CANT WAIT for the Ithaca saga but also am I ready? I don't know. I'm ready. but ready for it to be over? 😭😭 very exciting though

BOO ENGLISH. INTERNET SLANGS ARE COOLER. so many little things trip me over. I never know when to use "in" or "on". the other day I was wondering why you say "laun dree" instead of "laun dry". it's always the most random stuff lmao, that image is so true all the struggles are real

mila.exehasstoppedworking you kind of broke my brain in the last ones. I only had a singular braincell left 😭😭😭

[triptychgrip]

New fic: Yuuri vs. Yuri on Hot Ones Versus 🔥🔥🔥

Yura loudly exhaled then sat up straight. 

“Ok, so back in February 2017, there was a local hockey team that began renting the ice for the slot right after this geezer would “coach” his then-fiance,” he began, jerking his head in Viktor’s direction and making a big show of his air quotes. “Notice I used air quotes because 90 percent of the time he was flirting and hanging all over him and it was the most loose definition of coaching possible.”

Kenjirou gave a hysterical sort of giggle and then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth. Feeling slightly defensive of his husband, Yuuri didn’t even have to think much about the words that left his lips.

“Vitya’s unorthodox methods worked, though, didn’t they?” he chimed in, not bothering to tone down his smugness. “Remind me, Yura: who was the gold medalist at the 2017 World Figure Skating Championships, again?”

Viktor and Aasha barked delighted-sounding laughs and out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri saw Mila whip her phone out. Presumably, to capture the flush that had begun to stain his opponent’s cheeks.

“Yeah, well…anyway,” Yura resumed in a grumble, doing a pretty poor job of masking his flusteredness. “Most of the players– ”

“It was Yuuri-senpai! Yuuri-senpai was the 2017 World’s title holder!” Kenjirou interrupted in a shout, very unnecessarily. 

Yuuri bit his lip to suppress the mirth bubbling up within him and made a concerted effort not to look over at Viktor.

“As I was saying!” the Ice Tiger huffed, shooting him a nasty look, as if he could read his mind. “Most of the players kept to themselves, and other than some very questionable tastes in cologne that we were subjected to in the break room and locker room, they were fine to be around. But then there was the team captain, Sergei…who just straight up sucked.”

Yuuri decided to adopt a neutral expression.

While he hadn’t been the biggest fan of Sergei, he’d also never known what to make of his love’s opinion that the man had had a crush on him. It was true that Sergei had sought him out for conversation more than a lot of Yubileyny’s other skaters, but he’d chalked this up to the fact that at that point, he had still been extremely new to Russia in general, and had probably seemed starved for friendly faces. 

And, if Madame Baranovskaya had shot laser beams out of her eyes whenever she was in Sergei’s general vicinity, Yuuri had suspected this was due to her distaste for hockey, and not anything to do with a sense of protectiveness over him.

“There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to explain all the assorted means of suckage, but it was sometime in May that I snapped,” Yura continued on, looking impressively impassive. “Sergei had the most douchey hairstyle by the way…this platinum blonde, dyed sort of swoopy-thing that was his entire personality, to the point he never stopped talking about it.”

---

The above excerpt is from my newly uploaded fic (which I teased in this post), detailing Yuuri and Yurio facing off against one another on Hot Ones Versus. Taking place during the 2021 off-season, the two of them are currently the top two seeded skaters in the world, and their rivalry is heightened by the fact that they are both Viktor's students.

Just like my Vanity Fair Lie Detector fic, I had such a blast writing this, and am really excited to work on the final chapter, which will be from Yurio and Viktor's points of view. (Mila and Kenjirou also have large roles in this story, as they have tagged along for the episode filming for moral support, LOL).

If you read this WIP and enjoy it, PLEASE tell me what you think; I love receiving comments!

🔥 You can read Chapter 1, here 🔥

Oh, and as I mention in the pre-notes, this story marks my 20th Yuri!!! on Ice fic. Maybe it's about time I made a pinned post, lol...

[isekyaaa]

I'm reading a fanfiction currently about a girl that was isekai'd into AoaB with knowledge of everything that's going to happen in the future. It's a very good series of fics, but it's almost painful to get through. Though Myne has so many things going against her, somehow the main character in the fic, Mila, has it worse. Everything she works for she struggles to achieve. Nobody gives her any chances. Nobody is looking out for her. She can escape death and more and nobody will care. It's honestly depressing.

Reading it, I can't help but put myself in Mila's shoes and think how I'd feel if I got isekai'd into a world with knowledge of the future, and despite this, everyone, all the characters I love, treating me like a nuisance and a liability than someone of worth. But at the same time it makes sense. Even if Mila is the main character of the fic, the real main character is Rozemyne. That's who the world circles around. But still, as someone that rooting for Mila reading this, I just want happier things to happen to her.

[1693direttissima]

In the end, silence speaks louder than words.

I am not okay. (But they are, I promise.)

[struniolos]

some madness & badness combination

[revnah1406]

✨HAPPY BIRTHDAY @efingart!!!✨

Here's a little gift for you my dear!!💖

I found a beautiful render on twitter of Valeria and Alejandro (credits to the respective author of course✨) and I thought it could be the perfect reference for this drawing I had in mind!!

I keep working on how to draw Mila properly, I want to do her justice, as the gorgeous woman she is. I'll keep trying!!

I think Woods and Mila would be amazing models hahaha! So what if "Just What I Needed" is a Fashion Magazine Cover? 👀👀

Anyway, I hope you have the most wonderful day and an Amazing birthday!! 💖💕 you deserve everything good in this world! I'm so proud of you!

Love ya with all my heart!! 🥰🥰❤️

Little extra 💖

[pisupsala]

✨Mila's (Early) Endless Summer Reading List ✨

I'm packing my bags, so I thought I should pack my favorite stories: stuff that's been on my to-read list for too long, stuff I just enjoy re-reading and want you to know about, something to get me through the long-haul flight, something for sipping cocktails on the beach. I'm going to be updating the list with your recommendations and more stuff that I find. So:

Recommendations? 💕 YES PLEASE!

Recommend your own work? FUCK YES! ✨ minors dni, respect the author's tags, and show them some love by commenting and reblogging.

✨ TGM

mostly Bradley Bradshaw tbh lmao * This Love Came Back To Me by @beyondthesefourwalls i love these kinds of plots and it's so sweet *Remember You Even When I Don't by @beyondthesefourwalls i bizarrely never actually finished this and i will have to rectify this pronto *The Younger Kind by @roosterforme im like 20 chapters behind, soooo excited to binge this

*Leave a Light On by @sometimesanalice comfort story right here

*Hey Sailor by @sometimesanalice no notes, just yum

*Less Talk by @tongue-like-a-razor a jake story??? yes and i love this one *Faking It by @tongue-like-a-razor a classic, a must-read

*Little Wallflower by @bradshawsbitch it warms my poor heart and i feel this story on a personal level since I've been dealing with hearing loss

*Mise en Place by @bradshawsbitch hands down on my favorite AUs

*(christmas) baby please come home by @gretagerwigsmuse this fic influenced me so hard i bought a theragun *and even when we’re wrong in every way, we come out the other side okay by @gretagerwigsmuse actually just anything Jordan has ever done with the Smart Alec universe, you should read it

*Concerned Neighbor by @mothdruid this is just hot and you should enjoy it

*The Boyfriend Experience by @notroosterbradshaw i swear this is the fic that got me writing again, so if you like anything I've ever done you should go show Cass some love. *Don't Hang 'Em Till Noon by @sailor-aviator Jake western!AU? I knew I was rewatching Deadwood for a reason. Excited!! recommended by @goldenseresinretriever *Fool's Fare by @sailor-aviator A Jake pirate!AU while I'm on a beach in the Caribbean? Sign. me. up. Also recommended by @goldenseresinretriever *You Catch More Bees With Honey by @goldenseresinretriever I've seen this on my dash so much, but I shamefully never got around to it. How did you know I like hockey?

✨

Masters of the Air

Trust by @blurredcolour yeaaaaah, im obsessed. im deceased. this is so good.

prettier than a peach by @honeyskywitch reading this on my flight, so excited!

Oblivious by @sagesolsticewrites saving this one for the airport~

[lover-also-fighter-also]

INTRO POST (Note: Subject to Change)

Hi y'all,

You can call me Akhi/Huffle, anything works for me. My blog is mostly centered around Choices: Stories you play content. Some other stuff about me:

Pronouns: She/Her (cis woman)

Age: Born in 2002

Content overview: I mostly do reblogs for fanfics, memes, art content on choices. But I am working on making my own creations.

You can view my masterlist for all my MC's right here.

My content:

Mini fics - I sometimes write little fanfictions for the MC's in my masterlist. Please check them out here.

Asks about them or any other choices related stuff are welcome.

[milabeedoodling]

You see when you have the urge to do something? Well, that

(all made with my art xD)

[dreamywander]

❗AI-art❗Yuri!!! on Ice - Mila Babicheva🌺

«The ideal is the inner voice that calls us to rise above the ordinary» ©George Santayana

More pictures like this can be found in my profile ✨

[missdarhk]

helppp i cant get the mental image ares going 👍😀👍to encourage ody to keep yelling at poseidon out of my head

i cant wait to read it (or the equivalent)!!!

(i want to draw it so bad except my ass cannot draw lmao)

JAHAHHAHAJJ HELP HE WOULD LOOK SO FUNNY, TOO. like just blank face no thoughts going through his head but just a silly smile and thumbs up. athena is just facepalming in exasperation

(I UNDERSTAND THE URGE TO DRAW BUT LACK OF SKILLS IN A DEEPER LEVEL. it's always such a struggle 😭)